


i don't care (it's obvious)

by SomeTorist



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe – Movie Star, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Islamophobia, M/M, Racism, Zayn Niall Liam Harry and Perrie are nominees, golden globes, louis and el are interviewers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 06:34:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3164867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeTorist/pseuds/SomeTorist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Zayn, Niall, Liam, and Harry are all nominated for Best Actor in a Drama at this year's Golden Globes, Louis interviews them on the red carpet, and things don't exactly go to plan.</p><p>[or: snubbing snobs at the golden globes.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	i don't care (it's obvious)

**Author's Note:**

> O, to live in a world where celebs were vocal about shit like this.
> 
> Ah well.
> 
> Big love to [Anjali](http://louistomlilshit.tumblr.com) for literally everything. HAPPY ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY, BEB. ;D
> 
> ALSO: Liam is a racist, Islamophobic, homophobic dick in this fic, because I'm in charge around here. If you don't like it, just walk away.

 

Red carpets are thrilling. And terrifying.

Even after four years, Louis still feels like such a novice standing here, under bright lights that’ll turn on with the sunset, here in a too-hot tux and too-pinchy shoes, here in Los Angeles surrounded by celebrities people _scream_ for, here juggling cue cards and a microphone, with a piece in his ear and his heart beating too fast. Here, like an outsider.

In his ear, his producer starts the ten second countdown.

Louis breathes. 

The light by the camera goes green, and Louis is already grinning.

“Hi! I’m Louis Tomlinson, and welcome to NBC’s coverage of the 70th annual Golden Globe Awards. You probably knew all that, but just in case you didn’t.” He pauses to flash an even brighter smile, adds a slightly self-deprecating laugh before continuing. “As with every year, we’ll be bringing you exclusive interviews with all the beautiful and famous people you’ve come to love watching on the screen - large and small.” He pauses, then winks, “Actors from both TV and film, too.” From behind the camera, Paul gives him a thumbs-up, and Louis says, “And joining me tonight, beautiful as ever, is the lovely Eleanor Calder, mingling down in the throng with the best of ‘em. How’s it looking down there, El?”

They cut to El, and Lou dashes forward to touch at Louis’s purposefully-mussed hair. Eleanor’s summary of the popular predictions for the night is a low hum in his ear.

“Decided to keep the scruff, then, I see?” Lou asks pointedly, pulling fingers through his hair.

The day before, Lou had strongly advised against said scruff.

“Have to compensate for my height somehow,” Louis replies, pretending to gape at her. Lou laughs.

“Ten seconds,” Paul warns, and Lou steps back again.

_“–favorite Harry Styles, who, as I’m sure you can hear from the screaming crowd behind me, Louis, certainly has the ladies’ vote. Back to you.”_

“Thanks, El. We’ll be bringing you live coverage from the red carpet for the next hour,” he tells the world, grinning slyly, “so make sure to stack up on snacks now, and take a bathroom break while you still can. We’ll be right back.”

 

* * *

 

 _“Change of plans,”_ Paul buzzes in his ear, _“You’re interviewing Liam Payne instead. Handler asked specifically for you. No cue card prepared, but-”_

Louis slips his phone back into his pocket. “I’ve got it, yeah.”

_“You’re sure?”_

The light goes green, and Louis smiles wide as Liam takes his mark, standing on duct tape that puts him barely out of frame- for now.

“Welcome back to the 70th annual Golden Globe Awards,” Louis says, “I’m joined now by Liam Payne!”

Liam’s shifting from foot-to-foot, his hands stuffed in his pants pockets, _radiating_ tension that Louis prays the camera doesn’t pick up. Still smiling, he starts with an easy question.

“So, Liam, who’re you wearing? This fits you like a glove, mate.”

Liam offers him a grateful smile; it’s a question that _everyone_ practices answering. “Giorgio _Armani_ , actually,” he replies, smiling down at his outfit in awe. “Isn’t it amazing? Wish I could wear it all the time, to be honest.” As soon as the words leave his mouth, Liam goes a bit red in embarrassment, but Louis just chuckles, clapping a hand on Liam’s shoulder.

“I’m more of a trackies and trainers bloke, personally -  _sweatpants_ and _sneakers_ for you Americans or whatever - but it is a _great_ suit.” Louis watches Liam’s eyes light up at the familiar accent and the familiar slang, watches him relax noticeably, and pushes forward. “So - _Rewind_! Congrats on the nomination, mate, you really deserve it.”

“Thanks,” Liam blushes, shaking his head. “I still can’t believe it,” he says quietly, almost like a confession, “I mean, you always hope, as an actor, and _Rewind_ was a blast to shoot, but this-!” Louis watches Liam look out over the red carpet, the flashing cameras and the ebbing waves of beautiful people, the boxes filled to the brim with fans who’d paid hundreds of dollars for the chance to scream a celebrity’s name. Liam shakes his head. “I honestly never thought I’d get here.”

Liam Payne has been to the Golden Globe Awards before - he’d presented Best Score just last year. But, Louis knows, when Liam says _here_ , he means _nominated_. Liam is a blockbuster action film star, best recognized for his bulging biceps and absurdly hot Don’t Test Me face. His character in _Rewind_ is an anarchic version of the Batman from Louis’ childhood - laden with survivor’s guilt, battling the need to Do Good and the need to prove himself - and Louis had heard Eleanor’s predictions at the start of their live broadcast: Liam won’t win. His category, Best Actor in a Drama, is one of the most competitive of the night, and even the heart-wrenching monologue his character delivers between dying breaths won’t be enough to bag Liam the Globe.

“Well,” Louis shrugs, “You are here. Nominated for an amazing performance - and in an impeccable suit, no less.” Liam’s grinning openly, now, albeit a tad bashfully, all earlier traces of his anxiety gone. “What’re you most looking forward to, tonight?”

“The champagne,” Liam says seriously, eyes sparking with mischief, “Definitely the champagne.”

Louis cackles.

 

* * *

 

During the commercial break, Louis checks Twitter again, for the thousandth time. He takes a quick, blurry photo of the carpet from his slightly raised platform, tweets it with the caption:

_having a BLAST at the #GoldenGlobes !! who should I talk to next ??_

The hashtag is already trending, he notes absently, so that’s nice. He yawns, scratches his nose, and watches as replies to his tweet roll in.

_@Louis_Tomlinson please @NiallerHoran PLEASE_  
 _@Louis_Tomlinson Niall Horan!!!_  
 _@Louis_Tomlinson bring Liam back @Liam_Payne_  
 _@Louis_Tomlinson HARRY STYLES_  
 _@Louis_Tomlinson Niall Horan (@NiallerHoran). His movie was amazing._  
 _@Louis_Tomlinson have you talked to @h_styles yet?!??_  
 _@Louis_Tomlinson @H_STYLES, OBVIOUSLY_  
 _@Louis_Tomlinson @zaynm’s film was incredible_  
 _@Louis_Tomlinson @perriepedwards !! She’s awesome & beautiful & talented_  
 _@Louis_Tomlinson no one, just a whole hour of you, please_  
 _@Louis_Tomlinson um. @h_styles, because have you seen that boy._

Paul dashes forward, pushes a cue card into his hand; it’s filled with questions to ask Zayn Malik. Louis grins. He won’t need it.

 

* * *

 

“-for his _incredible_ performance in _The Stock Circle Line_ , which came out just a few weeks ago, to _rave_ reviews. What’s it been like since the release, Zayn?” Louis asks, holding the microphone towards him. Zayn, only vaguely uncomfortable in his Versace, flashes a smile.

“It’s been mad, it really has. The response to the film’s just been- stunning. We’re really, really grateful, we really are.”

Louis nods, pulls the microphone back for a moment. “It’s a fantastic film, you guys deserve all the praise. Especially you, for leading it, of course - congratulations on your nomination, by the way!”

“Thanks,” Zayn demures with a practiced smile and shrug, “I couldn’t have done it without the cast and crew we had, though- they’re _really_ amazing.”

Louis still has about 90 seconds to fill, so he pulls out one of the old-reliables. “So. D’you have a speech written already, or are you just gonna wing it if you win?”

Zayn’s been around the edges of mainstream film for a good few years, now, steadily building his resume with borderline blockbuster/indie films. _The Stock Circle Line_ is Zayn’s first major motion picture; a searing examination of contemporary racism, the film follows Zayn’s teenaged character as he loses not only his father to the London bombings, but also his friends, as anti-Islamic sentiment ensnares them one by one, ultimately leaving him isolated and alone. It’s a _masterful_ handling of a difficult topic in a relevant time, and according to Eleanor, Zayn is a favorite for the Best Actor in a Drama category by a clear mile. Louis would agree.

“Haven’t written it yet,” Zayn laughs, tugging nervously at his ear, “Still have a bit of time, though, I s’pose?”

“You do!” Louis offers Zayn his hand, smiling slyly. “And with any luck, you just might need it.”

 

* * *

 

“-just glad they let my play my guitar,” Niall laughs, throwing his head back in glee at his own joke. Louis snorts, more amused by the sight of child film star _Niall Horan_ cracking himself up in an all-white tuxedo than by his self-deprecating, self-aware joke.

“So that was all you?” Louis teases, “All the playing in the film, I mean? You can tell us the truth, all the awards have been decided by now, so they can’t take it back.”

Niall laughs again. “Piss off, ‘course it was me! No other reason they’d cast me, when you think about it.”

Niall Horan has been acting since before he could properly talk. His entire family’s involved in the industry somehow, and this film, the film Niall’s been nominated for, is probably going to pick up at least one Grammy nomination. _Cobain_ is respectful and irreverent, hilarious and thought-provoking, and Niall’s creative reinterpretation of Kurt Cobain is _magnetic_. There were - are, still - _many_ reasons to cast Niall Horan.

“Well,” Louis pretends to agree, “You _were_ the only one willing to wear that wig…”

“That was my real hair!”

Louis knows. “That was your _real hair_?”

“‘Course it was! You couldn’t tell?”

They both crack up.

It’s really a shame, Eleanor had said at the beginning of the night, that _Cobain_ had come out this year; in almost any other, Niall would’ve stood a good chance of winning his nomination for Best Actor in a Drama.

 

* * *

 

Now more than halfway through his part of the night, Louis checks Twitter again during a commercial break, absently scrolling through his phone as Lou, bless her, de-lints him with ferocious dedication.

Judging by the tweets that he’s been tagged in, it seems that Louis’ interview with Zayn Malik has annoyed a few bigots.

_@Louis_Tomlinson wtf why @zaynm he’s ugly_  
 _@Louis_Tomlinson @zaynm doesn’t deserve to even be there_  
 _@Louis_Tomlinson Stock Circle Line was pro-terrorist socialist bullshit, get him off my screen_  
 _@Louis_Tomlinson hahaha if you think @zaynm’s family wasn’t linked to the 05 london bombings gtfo_  
 _@Louis_Tomlinson I am appalled by ur interview w @zaynm. Horrible that we might give a national award to a film glorifying our national enemy_

Louis’ grip on his phone tightens. Down on the carpet, Eleanor’s interviewing Perrie Edwards, their voices a low hum in his ear, so Louis has a few more minutes to himself. He drafts a new tweet - another photo, with the following caption:

_Tweeters look !! Me and @zaynm on the carpet !! #GoldenGlobes_

The photo is a ridiculous selfie he and Zayn had taken immediately after their interview.

 _“-always a bit hard when people can’t really tell the difference between you and your character,”_ Perrie’s telling El, _“But that just kinda comes with the territory, I guess.”_

 

* * *

 

“Yeah, no, it’s absolutely mad,” Harry Styles nods in easy agreement. Louis’s question had been how much time it’d taken him to get ready for the awards.

Louis is a professional, though, and Harry’s already earned a reputation for being an off-beat sort of interviewee. Louis rolls with it.

“Must be, to be nominated for your first major film!” Louis says encouragingly. “ _Endless Road_ was incredible, mate, congratulations.”

“Thanks!” Harry beams. And then, where anyone else would’ve continued, gone on about how the film was really a team effort, or how it’s an honor just to be nominated, Harry just _stands there_ , with his hands clasped behind his back and a bright smile on his face.

Louis rushes to fill the silence, because that’s his job- much as he’d like to simply _bask_ in the presence of Hollywood’s newest darling. “So, d’you have a speech prepared, or d’you just plan on winging it?”

Instead of answering immediately, Harry waves happily to the fans who’ve been trying to catch his attention. Again. For the fourth time. “Sorry,” he says, turning back towards the camera, “What?”

“Your speech,” Louis repeats. He’s grinning, now, wide. He’d heard, of course, that Harry was a bit… _unique_ \- but really, there are no words. He’s incredible. “Have you written it already?”

“Oh. Right.” Harry laughs, shrugs his shoulders. “Reckon if I need one, the right words’ll just come to me, y’know?”

Harry isn’t expecting to win, which _floors_ Louis. _Endless Road_ had premiered to wild success, both critical and commercial, with Harry - as the film’s guitar-toting, plaid-wearing, life-purpose-seeking hitch hiker disillusioned with his young adult years-- receiving enough buzz to already have made _Harry Styles_ a household name. It’s his first film outside of the indie, low-budget circuit of Sundance, and Harry is only 21.

According to Eleanor, he stands a decent chance of winning Best Actor in a Drama.

If this were any other interview, Louis would reply with something vague and encouraging, like, _That’s the spirit! Who are you wearing, by the way?_

Instead, he feels the need to say something different. Something less- typical. Something to match this atypical interviewee. Instead, Louis asks: “And if the right words don’t come?”

Harry blinks at him in obvious surprise, probably stunned by the transparent honesty of the question, and then he giggles. “Dunno,” he shrugs, his grin even wider than before, “Haven’t really thought that far… What d’you think I should do?”

“Pray,” Louis answers immediately. Harry barks a laugh, his eyes bright.

“Nah, I only do that when things are _really_ desperate,” Harry deadpans, and it’s Louis’ turn to laugh. This is dangerous territory, poking fun at religion, but before Louis can change the subject, Harry’s leaning in closer to him, a playful smirk on his lips. “And what do _you_ pray for, Louis Tomlinson?”

Louis has a nose for these sorts of things, and Harry is definitely flirting. Such a shame that they’re currently broadcasting live on national television; in another life, Louis would’ve already been on his knees for this boy.

“A well-decided awards show and a strong glass of whiskey,” Louis says with a quirk of his brow. Harry leans back into his own space, chuckling. Paul signals to Louis from behind the camera, and Louis offers Harry his hand. “Harry Styles, thanks so much for your time, and good luck tonight.”

“No, thank _you_ ,” Harry grins, “This was great.”

 

* * *

 

 

Perhaps the greatest tragedy of hosting the pre-show interviews is that it _doesn’t_ include a seat in the ballroom: Louis has to watch the Golden Globes on television, just like everyone else.

Per tradition, he meets Stan in a slightly seedy bar a few miles away from the actual event, still dolled up in his Dolce and Gabbana, his bowtie dangling untied from his neck. Stan’s in a patchwork suit of his own, because four years ago Louis had mandated that he not be the only prick in a tuxedo sitting at the bar. The tradition’s stuck ever since.

“Tell me the opener was shit,” Louis begs, sliding into the stool next to Stan. He’s fifteen minutes late.

Stan laughs, and briefly tears his gaze from the screen above the bar to give Louis an impressed once over before turning away again. “You can just watch it on YouTube later.”

“It’s not the same,” Louis groans. He orders a whiskey to dull the pain.

“Perrie won Best Actress,” Stan tells him conversationally, and Louis groans again. Stan’s smirking. “So that’s me already in the lead, I think.”

“The night is long, oh Stan of mine - I’ve still _plenty_ of time,” Louis replies with a grin.

“Rhymed,” Stan notes, tipping his glass of whiskey to concede. Stan, who’d arrived at the bar God knows when, is already at least halfway tipsy, and Louis downs his own whiskey to start trying to catch up. “This year’s definitely mine, though,” Stan continues with a smirk.

Per tradition, the two of them have an Awards Bet: whoever makes more losing predictions has to pay their tab for the night _and_ do the winner’s washing for a week. Since Louis usually needles Eleanor for her input, he hasn’t lost in four years- to Stan’s great disappointment. El had predicted Jade Thirwall would take Best Supporting Actress over fan favorite Perrie Edwards, and Louis had believed her.

“You’re full of shit,” Louis laughs. Stan rolls his eyes.

“Drink your fucking whiskey, Mr. NBC.”

 

* * *

 

Two hours later, Louis and Stan are tied. And drunk. Louis blinks blearily down at the predictions checklists lying side-by-side on the bar, a commercial for Axe rolling across the TV screen above them.

“Right,” he says, “So if _Endless Road_ takes Best Film, and _Stock Circle Line_ takes Best Score-”

“Nah, mate, _Cobain_ ’s definitely taking Best Score.”

“No, no, listen, _Cobain_ ’s taking Best Original Song; _Stock Circle Line_ ’s taking Best Score.”

“...Maybe, but- could _Endless Road_ take Best Score?”

Louis’ eyes narrow. “They wouldn’t dare.”

Stan shrugs, takes another swig of whiskey. “It’s the HFPA we’re talking here, Lou, who fucking knows what they’d dare.”

Louis shakes his head, determined. “No. No way. There are two things in this world I am sure of, Stanley Lucas, and they are: 1. _Stock Circle Line_ should get Best Film but’ll lose to _Endless Road_ , and 2. _Stock Circle Line_ HAS to get Best Score.”

Stan opens his mouth to say something, but Louis continues before he can get a word in: “And Zayn Malik’s getting Best Actor. But that’s a given.”

Stan’s mouth shuts, and he shrugs in agreement. “Yeah alright,” he finally concedes. Both of them had checked Zayn’s name in their list for Best Actor in a Drama. His win is one of the few predictions they agree on. “That was three things, though.”

“Dick,” Louis laughs, affectionately pushes at Stan’s shoulder. Stan almost falls off his stool but doesn’t, so Louis figures he’s fine. “Right,” Louis says, sitting back to skim both their predictions lists again, “So if _Endless Road_ takes Best Film but _Stock Circle Line_ takes Best Score… we’ll still be tied?”

“Hell if I know,” Stan says cheerfully, and orders a pair of shots.

 

* * *

 

They’re two-and-a-half hours in, and this is what the night’s devolved into:

“It _counts_ , Louis,” Stan insists, reaching out for Louis’ hand. The presenter on screen is rattling off the nominees for Best Actor in a Drama, her tinny voice distant compared to the boom of Stan’s.

“It does _not_ , we’ve never played that way!” Louis yelps, holding his hands behind his back in a desperate attempt to evade the shot glass Stan’s trying to force on him.

“Failed attempts to bleep out a curse word count as a technical glitch!” Stan laughs. He changes tactics, and reaches for Louis’ jaw, like he plans on forcing the shot down his throat. Louis ducks his head, desperately trying to evade him.

“Those aren’t in the rules!” he insists.

“There _aren’t any rules_ , you twat!”

“Fuck you,” Louis groans, reaches out for the shot, which Stan relinquishes with glee.

_“And the Golden Globe goes to-”_

“Down the hatch it goes,” Stan grins, watching Louis tip his head back.

_“-Harry Styles!”_

Louis chokes on his vodka.

“WHAT?” Stan roars at the TV.

“They didn’t,” Louis says, gasping for air.

On screen, the camera’s focused on a shell-shocked Harry Styles, whose wide-eyed gaze is flitting around his table like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Stunned into silence, Louis and Stan watch Harry finally push himself to his feet, accept a slew of hugs from his castmates, and start making his way to the stage to accept his award.

“Those racist bastards,” Stan swears under his breath. Louis bites his lip and says nothing. It’s a terrible call - anyone with working eyes _knows_ that Zayn Malik deserves Best Actor - but this is Hollywood. Hollywood, where everything is superficial, political, selfish, and total shit.

Louis’ _outraged_ that Harry’s won - but he isn’t surprised.

On stage, Harry stands at the microphone with Golden Globe in hand, staring out at Hollywood’s most famous, as well as the still-broadcasting cameras. He shifts.

“He didn’t write a speech,” Louis remembers.

“He shouldn’t have needed one,” Stan snorts bitterly, eyes fixed on the screen.

Louis watches Harry Styles take a deep breath.

 _“...Wow,”_ Harry marvels. He glances down at the award in his hand with a small smile. _“Thanks, um, HFPA– this is amazing. I’m… honored. Really.”_

Louis rolls his eyes. “You don’t deserve it, though.”

_“-But I don’t deserve this. It was enough just to be nominated alongside Liam and Niall and Zayn. I don’t need an award to tell me I was good, y’know?”_

“What the fuck’s he on about?” Stan grumbles.

 _“Anyway,”_ Harry laughs, shakes his head. He looks up again, green eyes making direct contact with the camera, and he shrugs. _“There is someone who deserves this tonight, and it isn’t me.”_

And then, where everyone else had exited stage right, Golden Globe clutched in hand, Harry jogs down the main staircase into the audience again - making an obvious beeline for the table belonging to the _Stock Circle Line_ cast and crew.

“Holy shit,” Louis whispers.

Stan and Louis watch as Zayn Malik - confused, shocked, and ecstatic - hesitatingly stands from his chair to accept the Golden Globe Award for Best Actor in a Drama from the hands of Harry Styles.

“Can he _do that_?” Stan twists to face him, eyes wide. “Lou? Can he just- _do_ that?”

On screen, Zayn and Harry are hugging, everyone around them is giving the pair a standing ovation, and the voiceover is saying, _“We’ll be right back after the break.”_

“I-” Louis shrugs helplessly. “I have no fucking clue, mate. Reckon we’ll find out soon, though.”

An Old Spice commercial rolls, and Louis’ phone starts ringing.

 

* * *

 

 

“This is fucking amazing!” Stan shouts over the booming bass. Louis can barely see him through the flashing strobe lights- but then again, does he really need to? Louis sees Stan all the time… but he’s _never_ been to a Golden Globes after-party before. Stan leans in closer. “How’d you manage to swing this again?”

“I didn’t!” Louis answers with a shrug and a grin to match Stan’s. “My boss just called and said I had to get my ass to the HBO party because Harry Styles-”

“Louis Tomlinson!” Harry Styles crows, somehow materializing from the manufactured fog around them. His tie has disappeared from his neck, the top five buttons of his shirt are undone, and his carefully-coiffed curls fuzz in a halo about his head. Louis can see flecks of sweat in the crook of his neck.

“Jesus,” Louis swears, then regrets it immediately. Harry looks ecstatic.

“You came!” he says happily. Despite the pop music reverberating around them, Louis can hear Harry perfectly. “Now the party can _really_ start!”

“Seems pretty started to me,” Stan observes. Harry jumps, like he’s only just noticed him.

“Sorry, sorry! I'm Harry,” Harry says, offering Stan his hand, and Louis watches them introduce themselves. Harry’s gaze keeps flickering back to him. Louis feels warm.

“So you two are…?” Harry asks vaguely, gesturing between Louis and Stan, and Louis has to viscerally fight the urge to _preen_ at the hope hidden behind his words. Stan snorts.

“Nah, mate,” he says with a knowing smirk, only to hipcheck Louis so he stumbles closer to Harry. “He’s all yours.”

Harry beams, Louis maybe blushes, and Stan is so, _so_ dead.

 

* * *

 

“Congratulations, by the way!” Louis realizes, halfway through his second drink of the night. Well- his second drink of the after-party. He’s long lost track of how many shots he and Stan had forced on each other back at the bar. “Not just for the one you gave away-” Louis waves his hand dismissively, “-but the… Best Film!”

Harry grins. It’s only been twenty minutes, but Louis thinks he’s already become intimately familiar with this grin of Harry Styles; equal parts adorable and predatory, it’s the hottest thing Louis has ever fucking seen. A distant part of his brain wonders whether this is the smartest career move, to openly flirt with Hollywood’s latest scandal, to so obviously stick to him at the after-party- but then, apparently, Harry had been the one to _invite_ Louis in the first place. So Louis figures it all balances out.

“Thanks,” Harry beams guilelessly. They’re sprawled out on one of the couches along the walls, and Harry’s knee knocks into Louis’ companionably.

Somewhere, the DJ switches from vintage Britney Spears to something off Beyoncé’s latest album.

And then Harry’s mouth is at Louis’ ear, breath hot against his cheek. “I don’t really like awards, though,” he mumbles cheekily.

“I’ve gathered as much, thanks,” Louis says, rolling his eyes to distract himself from how close Harry suddenly is. Harry shrugs, and leans back into his own space. “Why?” Louis hears himself ask. Both he and Harry are surprised by the question, and Louis rushes to explain: “You must really hate them, then, if you’re willing to risk a budding career just to get rid of yours.”

Harry blinks, then bursts into laughter.

“I don’t _care_ about the awards,” Harry finally manages, grinning wide. “They’re just- little statues! I could buy a billion by now, if I really wanted.”

Louis gapes. They aren’t _just statues_ , he wants to say. Some people go entire lives working their asses off for the kind of recognition that’s just been _lavished_ on Harry Styles- but the glint in Harry’s eyes tells Louis he already knows.

“Zayn deserved it,” Louis observes quietly, and takes another sip of his drink.

Harry shrugs, knee knocking against Louis’ again. “Yeah, basically.”

 

* * *

 

A giggling Niall Horan topples across their laps to the beat of a Nicki Minaj song. He’s drunk off his ass, a ridiculously wide smile stretching his lips, and he reaches up to capture Harry’s face with both his hands.

“That was really fucking ballsy, Harry Styles,” Niall says sagely. Harry grins, the apples of his cheeks blooming under Niall’s palms. “Fuck knows if it’ll _work_ , but still.”

“Thanks, mate,” Harry laughs. “Loved your movie, by the way.”

Louis tweaks Niall’s ankle, just to prove that he’s here, too. “And congrats on Best Original Song, too! Well deserved, that one.”

Niall sits up, then, and says a sincere, “Thanks!” before recognizing Louis, presumably from the red carpet. “Hey! Thanks!” Niall repeats, realization dawning. “Louis Tomlinson!”

“The one and only,” Louis answers cheekily, “But please, no autographs tonight.” Niall cackles.

“Wouldn’t offer ‘em to you if you paid me,” Niall teases. He’s still stretched out on Harry and Louis, and for the moment, he doesn’t seem to be showing any signs of moving.

Louis’ drunk enough to roll his eyes and swear at child film star _Niall Horan_ , “Dick.” Niall laughs again. Then, finally, he seems to realize exactly where he is. Louis watches his gaze flick from Harry’s flushed face, to Louis’, and back to Harry’s.

“Shit– I’m interrupting something, aren’t I?” Niall asks gleefully, a sly smile widening on his lips. “Fuck, _Tomlinson_ –”

“You should know I don’t share, Horan,” Louis says, aloof. He regrets it immediately, but then–

“Same here,” Harry says. From the corner of his eye, Louis would swear Harry was grinning.

Niall blinks once before he’s cackling again– in joy, Louis’ pretty sure. “‘Course you don’t,” he finally manages in between his giggles. “I’ll just – get out of your way, then,” he says, clambering off their laps and only barely succeeding in not kneeing Louis in the balls.

For a moment, Niall stands in front of them, white tuxedo unbuttoned and bow tie unfurled, swaying. “You did good, Styles,” Niall says, sincere, and just loud enough to be heard above the Katy Perry.

Then he flashes a blinding smile at them both and they lose him to the crowd.

 

* * *

 

“This,” Louis tells Harry plainly, “Is probably the second best chocolate cake I’ve ever had.”

“Second best?” Harry parrots. He has frosting on his nose, and it’s adorable, so Louis’ holding off on telling him.

“Second best,” Louis repeats. “Second to my mum’s, obviously.”

At that, Louis watches Harry’s wide, brilliant grin soften into something quieter. Fonder.

They’re standing very close. Maybe he should tell Harry about that frosting. Or, maybe he could just reach out and–

“Harry Styles!” a voice chirps from behind them, and Harry closes his eyes for one, two beats before turning from the desserts table, somehow catching Louis under his arm in the process.

“Hi Perrie,” Harry says brightly, “Zayn!”

Perrie Edwards and Zayn Malik: Hollywood’s rising power couple, now with two Golden Globes between them. Sort of.

“Harry,” Zayn says, slurring only a bit, sticking his hand out to shake– which Harry does, after shooting Louis an amused eyebrow quirk. “You’re a brilliant bloke, mate, but that was fucking stupid, you know that, right?”

Under his arm, Perrie laughs. “He doesn’t think they’ll let him keep it,” she pretends to whisper.

Louis waves her comment away. “They’d be daft not to,” he assures them both, “Not with the media blowback they’d get.”

“Yeah?” Zayn blinks at him for a few seconds, then shrugs. “Best not count on it.” He offers Harry a fuzzy smile. “You won it fair and square, mate, and that’s alright. You were well amazing in your film.”

Harry’s shaking his head. “It wasn’t _fair_ , Zayn,” he says simply, “It was politics. And politics aren’t fair.”

Neither Perrie nor Zayn seem to know how to respond to that, and there’s an unusual, awkward beat of silence between the four of them. In that beat, Louis and Perrie both seem to realize that they’re mirroring each other exactly – Louis under Harry’s arm, Perrie under Zayn’s.

Louis blinks. Perrie grins. “So… any special plans for tonight, you two?” she asks coyly.

Louis feels Harry shrug. When had he put his arm around Harry’s waist? “Dunno,” Harry says easily, “Awards night! Reckon it’s the night anything can happen, y’know?”

“I’m just trying to enjoy myself, to be honest,” Louis says. “Soaking in the fancy VIP party and that.”

“This is your first party?” Zayn asks, brow furrowed.

“Well– no, obviously. First big _fancy_ one, though, yeah.” Louis grins. “I usually only wear suits like this when I’m interviewing on the carpet.”

“That’s bullshit,” Zayn says honestly.

“Louis,” Harry says, and when Louis glances up, Harry’s frowning.

“It’s alright,” Louis says quietly. He shrugs one shoulder. “Stan and I have this tradition–”

“Oh!” Perrie exclaims, clapping her hands excitedly as the overhead track melts into Lorde’s hit single. “Sorry boys, sorry – babes, I have to dance. _We have to dance._ C’mon!”

“Oi, Styles!” Zayn shouts over the bass as Perrie pulls him onto the dance floor, “Your nose! Frosting!”

“What’d he say?” Harry asks Louis, confused. And suddenly it’s easy – so, so easy – for Louis to reach out, swipe the chocolate frosting off the tip of Harry’s nose, and suck it off his finger.

Harry’s eyes go wide.

“Oh,” Louis says breezily, “You had a touch of frosting on your nose. Did you not notice?”

He watches Harry swallow hard. “Nope,” Harry answers roughly, grinning, “Must’ve been distracted.”

 

* * *

 

“Is this– are you the line?”

“What?” Louis’s pretty sure the DJ’s been steadily increasing the volume of the music. Liam Payne gestures, confused, at the door for the men’s bathroom. “Oh! Nah mate,” Louis grins, “Just waiting for someone, that’s all. I’m sure you can go right on in!”

The furrow in Liam’s brow relaxes, and he laughs. “Good! Was right thrown there, for a second – the men’s never has a line… Dunno what I’d do if I had to wait, honestly.”

“Yeah,” Louis replies absently, scrolling through his mentions on Twitter, “How those women handle it is well beyond me–”

“What?”

Louis glances up again. Liam’s head is sticking out from the door, looking confused all over again. “Did you– sorry, did you say something?”

Louis waves his hand. “Nah, nevermind.”

“Shit, sorry, mate! What was it?”

Even from here, Louis can tell Liam’s doing the Wee Dance behind the door. He rolls his eyes, strides into the bathroom where the noise level is considerably lower.

“All I said was that I’ve no idea how women always seem to handle their long loo lines, it’s really–”

“Sorry lads,” an amused voice says from near the urinals, “You’ve only _just_ missed my penis.”

“Really? Shit,” Louis pretends to swear. He watches Harry step to the sink, boots clicking against the tile. The three of them are – at least for this moment – alone in the bathroom.

Liam lets out a short, uneasy laugh. Louis watches Harry look at him, assessing, before his expression smooths.

“Loved your film, Liam,” Harry says easily, pulling a few paper towels out with a grin. “Went with my goddaughter, actually – it was a right good time.”

Liam brightens. “Thanks, mate! And I really loved _Endless Road_ – congratulations on your win! You definitely deserve it.”

“Yeah, well,” Harry demures, lightly hipchecking Louis as he leans against the wall beside him. “We were in great company, weren’t we?”

“Oh yeah,” Liam agrees quickly. He’s stopped doing the Wee Dance, Louis’s noticed. Had he managed to piss himself without either of them noticing? “Just– you know. _Endless Road_ … that’s a universal kind of film, isn’t it? You’re a proper Every Man in that! Timeless.”

Harry is frowning now. “I dunno if I buy the ‘every man,’ really.” He glances down at Louis. “Lou?” he nudges, “You must’ve had this conversation loads of times with your work friends, yeah?”

Louis Tomlinson is standing in a bathroom at a Golden Globes after-party – with two Golden Globe nominees, no less. But the cameras aren’t rolling now, and he and Stan had come to a consensus on this a long time ago.

“ _Endless Road_ is a film about an entitled, hipster _prick_ ,” Louis says evenly, “Whose quest to ‘find himself’ means faffing about the country until he meets a beautiful blonde and they ‘fall in love’ or whatever. Just because it’s boring and overdone doesn’t make it _timeless_.”

Louis can feel Harry giggling against his arm, and Liam looks stunned, so – of course – he has to keep going.

“–Honestly. Give me any tagline remotely similar to ‘pretentious asshole, who’s also _tragically_ broken, finds his true self through the power of music and/or love,’ and I’ll give you at least two dozen movies that fit… _and_ that were all made in the last five years, too.”

Harry is openly cackling now, while Liam’s surprise has somewhat shuttered. Louis watches him shrug.

“That’s – yeah, alright, I’ll give you that, we definitely need different plotlines, sure. Just–” For a moment, Liam almost looks like he’s _pleading_. “It’s pretty hard to relate to that character, y’know? Like–”

“Zayn Malik’s character?” Harry says quietly. Liam looks relieved.

“Yes! I mean, it’s bloody horrible what he goes through in the film but – well. You’ve seen what they can do, it’s not exactly as if–”

“ _They_ ,” Louis repeats. Liam waves his hand.

“The– you know, the terrorists. Bloody horrible, that bombing was. My uncle–”

“What?!” Louis manages to say, gaping. He can’t fucking believe this. “Malik’s character isn’t a fucking terrorist, _that’s the whole fucking point_ –”

A hand – warm, large – gently massages at his neck.

“It’s alright, love,” Harry says quietly, soothingly. “I’m sure Liam didn’t _mean_ to imply that Muslims are terrorists.”

“No, ‘course not,” Liam says quickly. His voice sounds a bit odd, but Louis’s too busy melting into Harry’s expert fingers to care.

“Otherwise,” Harry continues, “He would’ve missed the whole point of Zayn’s film. And he’d be more like the racist bastards than Zayn’s character, which.” Louis hears a smile in Harry’s voice. “–I’m sure he isn’t.”

Louis tries to hum in assent, worries a bit that it comes out too much like a moan, and decides he doesn’t care. “You’re– you’re rather good at this, Styles,” he says, low, and drops his head to give Harry better access.

“...Right,” Liam says suddenly, his voice sounding strangled. “I’ll just– you clearly need some time, so–”

Louis opens his eyes just in time to see Liam _sprint_ from the bathroom.

“Dunno what he’ll do with his bladder,” Louis says with a smirk, “But I’m sure he'll manage alright.”

Harry’s hand drops from his neck, and Louis glances up at him with a frown. For the first time tonight, Harry is looking unsure. Louis watches him take a small step away.

“Shit, sorry,” Harry says quietly, hand in his hair and eyes wide. “I should’ve– asked, at least. Just wanted to make him uncomfortable a bit, shouldn’t have assumed you were gay or interested in me – or any other sexuality, sorry, this isn’t–”

“I am,” Louis says, so easily that he surprises himself.

Harry blinks at him.

“You are…?”

Louis smirks. “Yep.”

Harry grins, blinding. “Brilliant.”

A beat. Then: “Wanna go find Liam and snog in front of him?”

“I’m flattered,” Louis replies, batting his eyelashes before taking Harry’s arm with a grin. “Though I should say,” he continues imperiously, “It’s truly an honor to even be considered.”

**Author's Note:**

> i literally started this fic last year in the wake of the 2014 golden globes and IT IS FINALLY DONE!!!
> 
> (oh also i'm on [tumblr](http://onedirectionetc.tumblr.com))


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